


o christmas tree

by shamrae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Fluff, old lesbians celebrating christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamrae/pseuds/shamrae
Summary: in which moira and angela become a christmas tree.





	o christmas tree

**Author's Note:**

> a short little writing thing for tori for the moicy discord's secret santa!! based off of the art piece i made [here](http://shamrae.tumblr.com/post/169158185764/my-gift-i-made-for-the-moicy-discords-secret)!

“ _Mein Gott_ ,” comes a disbelieving hiss from the living room.

“Angela?” Moira calls, leaning back to see if she can catch a glimpse of her wife. The coffeemaker hisses and bubbles on the counter nearby. There’s no response. Moira frowns, her mouth thinning as she pours coffee into both mugs. She dumps two spoons of sugar into one of them, not bothering to properly mix it in in her rush to get to the living room.

She holds the mugs in front of her like a shield as she crosses the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, the carpet soft beneath her bare feet. Angela’s standing with her back towards Moira, silent.

Moira approaches her. “Ang?” she says softly, setting the mugs on the table. The flickering shadows from the fireplace casts the graying strands of her hair in a pale gold, a whisper from a time when they were both twenty years younger.

A small noise escapes Angela’s throat, and Moira feels something in her chest twist as she catches sight of the hand pressed over her mouth, the curl of her shoulders.

“Oh, _acushla_ ,” she whispers. She lays a hand on Angela’s shoulder, the soft knit of the sweater warm from the fire. “What is it?” She follows the line of her gaze to the container on the floor before them, the lid displaced, smudged fingerprints in the dust that covers it. Moira’s brow knits  momentarily before she sees its contents, the label on the side.

Oh. _Oh_.

“Angela, I—“

“We forgot _Christmas_ , Moira.” The tightness in Angela’s voice is only bested by the vice around Moira’s own throat as she’s strangled by guilt, wondering where the days, the weeks, the _months_ have gone.

How did they forget? How did _she_ forget? Moira didn’t care much for Christmas, but _Angela_ did, and by extension so did Moira—they were so _careful_ to celebrate it every year, to decorate the tree with the ornaments that had survived the Crisis and a star that was missing part of a point, to leave small presents before the weathered frames holding Angela’s parents.

“What’s _wrong_ with me?” Angela whispers. “How could I—?”

Moira immediately shushes her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and drawing her close. Despite the heat from the fireplace, she is shivering. “No, no,” she tells her. “Stop that. This isn’t your fault, love. We can still celebrate Christmas.”

“We don’t even have a _tree_ ,” she says despondently.

Moira pulls away from her grieving wife and looks at the lights in the bin. An idea begins to form. “We don’t _need_ a tree.” She stoops over, inevitably dragging Angela as she has an arm wrapped around her waist, and picks up one of the coils. 

Angela watches her shake out the dusty garland with obvious bemusement. “Moira, what—?“ she starts, irritation leaking through her words as Moira begins to wrap them around her shoulders. Moira presses a soft kiss to her palm, coiling the strand around her arm and her wrist, and then begins to loop herself into the mess.

Dawning comprehension breaks across Angela’s face, and she lets out a bark of disbelieving laughter. “You are _ridiculous_ ,” Angela mutters, voice thick and eyes wet as she looks up at her. Catching sight of the expression on her face, she smacks a hand into her chest. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Moira. It’s unbecoming.”

Moira raises a hand and traces the soft, fine lines at the corners of her eyes, of her mouth and forehead before resting it against her cheek. “How could I not?” she murmurs, feeling her mouth curve in a smile. “Necessity begets ingenuity. We make a _very_ handsome tree if I do say so myself.” 

Angela snorts, ducking her head forward and letting her brow rest on Moira’s chest. “Ridiculous,” she repeats. Her voice is muffled.

“Genius,” Moira corrects, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We are _geniuses_ , dear.”


End file.
